The Games We Play - Chapter 31: Chapter 31

Khalid's OTW filled the cabin of Wes's truck, the bass thumping gently through the speakers as the trees of campus came into view. His hand was casually sandwiched between my thighs, his fingers warm against the denim of my jeans, as if it belonged there.
And it did.
I lean my head back against the seat, still glowing from getting thoroughly cleaned in the shower we'd shared earlier.
My body hums with contentment, my skin practically sparkling. I don't know if it's the result of him or the mental block I'd finally shattered, but whatever it is, my orgasm is intense.
As are all of them.
And there's been a hell of a lot.
"...and then Aunty Lou thought it'd be a good idea to deep-fry the turkey in the middle of the driveway," I say, waving a hand in the air as I get to the main plot of the story.
Wes turns to glance at me, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Fuck—that don't sound too good."
"Oh, it wasn't," I say, grinning. "The fryer caught fire, the turkey exploded, and my cousin Hannah ended up crying because her sweater got singed."
Wes scoffs. "Ain't no fucking way."
"Yep," I say, my cheeks hurting from smiling so much. "And instead of putting it out with the hose like a normal person, Aunt Lou grabs the closest thing to her—my uncle's bottle of beer from his hand—and pours it on the flames."
Wes lets out a laugh, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles against my leg. "What the fuck?"
"I swear to God, she thought she was helping," I say, giggling. "By the time the fire department showed up, my mom had practically disowned her, and that's why there's this huge, massive black stain on our driveway."
He smirks at me. "And where are you during all this, huh? I'da thought you were in the middle of all that."
I give him a sly smile. "Nope. I'm eating my weight in pie while dodging questions about my dating life."
"Smart," he says, nodding sagely. "Let the others duke it out while you sit back and enjoy the show."
"Exactly," I say, grinning. "Survival of the fittest."
He shoots me a sidelong glance, his blue eyes gleaming. "But—uh—what kinda questions are we talkin'?"
I scoff. "Same old ones. Why I don't have a man, why I'm not married. Have I tried the apps? Have I tried talking to a male? Even the girls that look like a male? Plus, one of my cousins keeps trying to set me up with her weird church friend who collects Russian dolls."
"Russian dolls, huh?" Wes says, his tone laced with amusement. "I mean, I don't blame 'em for wonderin'. You're somethin' special, Cam."
"Real smooth, QB." I grin, sliding my hand around the nape of his neck as I use it to pull myself closer to him. I place a kiss on his cheek and quickly wipe off the lip gloss left on his skin. "Mmm—you smell good."
"It's your body wash." Wes shrugs with a smirk, and I settle back into the seat but keep my hand on his nape. "You left me in the shower. Figured it was fair game."
"Fair game?" I tease, my fingers still lightly tracing the back of his neck. "You're lucky I let you borrow it. That stuff's not cheap."
"Guess I'll have to start another tab," he drawls, his hand giving a gentle squeeze where it rests against my thigh.
"Damn right," I say, smirking. "You've already stolen half my snacks and now my body wash. Next, you'll be raiding my closet."
His eyes flick over to me, filled with mischief. "You mean like that Panthers tee you're always wearin'? It matches the one missing from my wardrobe?"
"That's different," I say quickly, lifting my chin. "I look better in it."
"Can't argue with that," he says, his grin widening.
Soon, we're pulling into the parking lot of The Stables.
Wes parks his truck smoothly, cutting the engine as we both unbuckle. I swipe up my leather tote from the floor and slide out of the cabin, having to drop the last few inches because the truck is too damn tall.
I close the door with my hip and turn to the window, using the black glass as a mirror. I lean forward, using my manicured nail tips to clean up the edges of my lip gloss.
Wes appears in the dark reflection of the window, and I grin as he wraps his arms around my waist, hugging me tightly from behind and tucking his face into the junction of my neck.
His breath tickles my skin, and I laugh lightly, reaching up to run my hand through his hair.
"This was a mistake," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing.
"Hmm?" I ask, swiping the applicator across my bottom lip.
"Leavin' the bed," he says, resting his hands lightly on my hips. "We should've stayed right where we were. Could've called it a 'self-care day.'"
I smirk at his reflection. "Wes, you have practice, and I have a class. We're not hermits."
He leans closer, his lips brushing against my ear. "Can't even remember life before Tuesday afternoon."
I laugh and turn around to face him. "Pretty sure you were a quarterback. Something about football? Rings a bell?"
"Oh yeah." Wes grins as I intertwine my fingers through his and pull him across the parking lot.
The morning sun has warmed the pavement, and the smell of fresh-cut grass lingers in the air. But it's getting progressively colder as we head toward the shortest day of the year. Oh—and Christmas!
We step up onto the smooth concrete bordered with amazing gardens framing the front of the football facilities. There's a body also heading toward the door, and we meet him at the intersection of our two paths—gray slacks, a blue Cotsquarter-zip, and a big mustache.
"Mornin', Coach," Wes greets him just as he spots us heading toward him.
"Ah, Wesley," Coach Fletch says as he comes to a slow stop in front of us. His eyes flicker down to our conjoined hands before he offers me a small smile. "Cameron, good to see you."
I return it. "You too, sir."
"So," he says, gesturing between the two of us. "This is a thing now?"
Wes's grin widens, and his hand flexes around mine. "Sure is."
"Well," Coach says, nodding approvingly, "good. We need someone keeping you in line off the field too, Reed."
I laugh softly as Wes gives an exaggerated salute. "I'll do my best, sir."
"Cameron, you have yourself a good day," Coach says, stepping toward the door. "I'll see you inside, Wes. Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Wes replies, his hand tightening briefly around mine as Fletch walks toward the large glass doors and heads inside.
I turn and step in front of him. "Well, QB1, this is where I leave you."
"Not yet," he says, tugging me closer with a mischievous smile. He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to my lips.
"Wes," I protest, laughing as I weakly attempt to pull away.
"C'mere, baby." He beckons like a siren, pulling me back in for a deeper kiss. One hand finds the small of my back, the other cups the side of my neck, holding me steady as he tilts his head to deepen it further.
The hand on my back slips down onto my ass.
I can't stop the moan slipping out of me, the material of my panties now too much for my swollen and overly sensitive pussy. Fuck—how am I going to survive these next five hours without seeing him?
"Told you it was a mistake leavin' the bed." Wes hums against my lips, his smirk evident in our kiss.
"Okay, okay. You were right." I chuckle as I give him one last kiss and step away. "But I still have a class to get to, and you have to go make sure my team makes it to national champs."
"Your team?" He arches a brow, his body turning to face me as I slowly walk backward.
"Well—I do own the quarterback, don't I?" I ask innocently, my hands up in question.
The smile Wes gives me hits like a sucker punch. "Damn right you do, baby."
I giggle and give him a small wave before turning and heading toward the main campus.
It's a little quiet now, with most students heading home for Thanksgiving break. It's crisp and cold, but the sun is bright and shining—so much fucking better than the moody gray clouds that have covered Charlotte for the past two weeks.
The familiar buzz of chatter and the smell of fresh coffee greet me as I step into Blue & Brew. The place is packed, as usual, but I spot my group of people immediately.
Jude, Scarlett, Tasha, and Kiki are gathered at a corner table, talking in hushed voices while staring at Jude's phone.
As I approach, Jude glances up, his lips quirking into a sly smile. "You sneaky little bitch."
My bag slips off my shoulder as I groan. "Scarlett!"
"The fuck?" She looks up in complete offense. "Hey—my lips were sealed, Cam. I swear."
"Then how the hell do you already know?" I grumble as I slump into the empty seat at the table.
"Because I know everything." Jude shrugs confidently before sliding his phone over to me. "Plus, this was posted on your man's story."
I pick up his phone in both hands, my lips parting slightly as I take in the image.
It's unmistakably his hand—broad, tan, and resting casually on his lap. My hand is intertwined with his, my glossy nails catching the light, and two dusty pink lipstick kisses are stamped on the back of his hand.
The caption reads: Number one player is officially benched.
I pause and slowly lift my gaze to see all of them staring back at me.
Scoffing, I drop the phone and gesture to it. "That—that could be anyone's hand."
Kiki, who has been quietly sipping her matcha latte and the tea that is my life, instantly grabs my wrist and holds it up to the group.
The tiny little bows I'd had painted on the French-stiletto tips glint in the café's warm light. The exact same tiny little bows on the nails in the photo.
The group of bitches all fall into laughter, and I rip my hand from Kiki's grasp, hiding it against my chest as I glare at them all.
I grumble, "I hate you. All of you. Y'all are written out of my will."
"Sweetie," Jude says, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Just own it. You're glowing like the damn sun right now."
"And you look disgustingly happy," Tasha chimes in, leaning forward with a teasing smile. "So, spill."
"It's not a big deal," I say, fighting a grin as I grab a sip of my iced tea.
"Oh, it's a huge deal," Kiki says, smirking. "You're officially dating Wesley Reed. That's basically the college equivalent of marrying a Kennedy."
I roll my eyes. "Wow, y'all could go to the Olympics for that fucking leap."
"Then tell us." Jude grins as he leans forward and rests his chin on the backs of his intertwined fingers.
"C'mon, Cam!" Tasha begs. "Kiki and I are in long-term relationships, Jude's love life is a nuclear shitshow, and it'd be easier to get government secrets out of the CIA than info about Clay out of Scarlett."
Jude looks obviously offended, but Scarlett folds her arms and nods proudly.
"Just give us something! Please!" Kiki throws her arms around me, pressing her forehead to my shoulder as she pleads.
I chew on my lip before sighing and dropping my head. "Fine! What do you thirsty bitches want to know?"
Their questions come rapid-fire, and for once, I don't mind. Sitting there with my friends, laughing and teasing, I feel lighter than I have in weeks.
For the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly right.
☆☆☆☆
The past few days with Wes have been a blur of late nights, lazy mornings, and an overwhelming need to be near each other—of hands and tongues and heavy breathing, of flesh and ecstasy and love.
It's not like we've declared anything to the world—well, I haven't—but the shift between us is undeniable. An intense intimacy has settled in, making it impossible to remember how and, quite fucking frankly, why I had kept him at arm's length for so long.
Wes comes over to my place after practice, his hair damp and his muscles still loose from the field, and sits on my bed while I work on my portfolio. He insists he isn't tired, but more often than not, I find him sprawled out on my bed, fast asleep, by the time I finish.
Or we grab breakfast together when his schedule allows, sitting in a quiet corner of Blue & Brew while he scarfs down enough food for three people. He always insists on paying, even when I try to argue.
He picks me up after my classes and takes me back to his. We don't even make it inside. I'm slipping off my jeans and riding him in his truck, right there in his driveway, with his whole neighborhood to see.
Of course, Wes is very attentive when it comes to my deadlines and knowing when I need to study and focus. But when I'm done—he's more than happy to reward me for being so studious.
And it seems we both prefer our rewards in a more physical way.
Wes just got back his latest grade in art history—not quite as stellar as the last one but still impressive enough with Grady as his professor.
I'd been on campus, on my way to have lunch with Scar, when he swept me away, took me back to his, and thoroughly celebrated his achievement.
"Fu—fuck." I moan out, biting into the pillow as I press my upper body deeper into the mattress.
I'm on my knees, my back arched like crazy, ass stuck right up in the air as Wes plows into me from behind. My nipples, seriously swollen from Wes's sucking and nibbling, rub against the material of his dark sheets, sending ripples of shivers all across my skin.
"Shit, baby," Wes grits out, his fingers digging into the flesh of my hips as he fucks me hard and fast. "That's it—squeeze me. So fucking tight."
I hum, my eyes rolling back as his cock hits that special place inside me. "Mmmmmmm—Wes."
I can feel—hear—the juices slipping out of my pussy, running down the inside of my thighs, coating his dick and thighs too. He just makes me so damn wet, and when he fucks me this hard, it all just pours out of me.
Rolling my hips back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, I bite harder into the pillow, now drenched with my drool.
"Fuck, this ass." Wes grunts, grabbing one cheek in his massive palm and squeezing. "So damn soft. Love seeing it fucking bounce on my cock."
A shudder runs through me as he spreads my ass cheeks apart, no doubt getting a full view of my puckered and waxed asshole, and he moans at the sight.
"Right there—ooooh—right there," I cry out against the pillow as he continues to split me in half with his massive dick. "O—ohhhhh fuck. Don't stop."
I love when he gets rough, pounding me to the point where I might just shatter. His hands grip onto my flesh as his cock thrusts in and out, in and out, at a pace that makes my entire body shudder with pleasure.
I'm shaking, my feet flexed up and toes curled, and I can't keep myself up on my arms. I'm almost suffocating on the damn pillow as I drive my upper body into the bed.
"Oooh—shit. Fuck!" I moan out as his cock nudges that sweet, sweet spot and then begins to violate it.
He hits it over and over again, every damn time.
I gasp when his hand slips from my hip, coming around to the front and diving between my legs. "WES!"
He pinches my clit between his fingers before rubbing it in tiny little circles. My clit is entirely fucking swollen, and Wes rubbing on it, caressing it, stroking it, makes it all the more fucking sensitive.
It shocks my body, and I can feel more slickness pour from my pussy.
"Oh god—I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna cummmmmmm," I rush out, pushing myself up on one forearm, pressing my forehead into my wrist. I try to lean forward, to get away from his huge cock. "Too—too much."
"You ain't going nowhere, baby." Wes chuckles, pulling me back toward him. "You're cumming on this cock."
His hand keeps rubbing my clit in tiny, fast circles, and my orgasm strikes—hard and fast.
"Ohhhhh myyy goooood—Wesssss—fuck!" I squeal as the intensity of my orgasm overpowers me.
I try to crawl away from him, but he holds me against him, still rubbing me, still fucking my pussy hard and deep while I come.
"Oh god—oh shit." I inhale sharply, my toes curling up, my hands balling into tight fists, my legs twitching. I glance down, seeing the muscles in my stomach shudder and flex and ripple as my orgasm courses through me.
He leans over me, his weight pressing slightly more onto my lower back, and he slams into me a little harder. I can tell he's close—how impatient he becomes with his thrusts, how rough he gets.
I love it.
When I squeeze him tighter, he lets out a groan, and I feel his body tense behind me.
He sounds so fucking hot when he comes. Not too loud or too much—just pure pleasure and manly, heavy grunts.
His cock expands inside me as he buries himself deep and good.
"Wes," I breathe out, pressing my cheek to the pillow, my eyes unfocused on nothing in particular across his room as the world slowly comes back into focus.
"Fuck, baby," Wes exhales as he fills up the condom inside me.
I feel him on my back as he leans over me, his lips pressing a delicate kiss to the top of my spine. And then he's slowly pulling out of me. I moan again at the feeling of him sliding through my lips, the bulge of the overfilled condom spreading me a little wider as he pulls it through.
Once he's gone, I collapse onto the mattress.
He's shaky as he steps off the bed and disposes of the condom, and I slowly roll onto my back, throwing my forearm over my eyes as the late afternoon sun streaks through the open blinds.
"Holy shit," I chuckle into the quiet room as I feel the mattress dip at my side. Wes climbs onto me, throwing an arm over my waist and locking me against his chest like he needs me as much as air. His head finds its favorite spot, nestled between my tits, his cheek pressing against my bare skin.
He lifts up and kisses one of my nipples lightly. "So fucking perfect."
My fingers naturally find their way into his hair, twisting through the damp strands as he exhales against me.
Every time he touches me, it feels like he's trying to communicate something words can't quite capture.
He shifts slightly, his arm sliding lower to grip my hip, his thumb brushing the curve of my waist in slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass sends tiny sparks up my spine, and I hum in delight.
"Can't believe you're ditching me," he murmurs against my skin.
I giggle and stare at the ceiling. "I'm not ditching you. I'm going home for Thanksgiving. Big difference."
"Feels like the same thing to me."
I snort, shaking my head as my hand drifts from his hair to his shoulder, trailing my fingers down the strong line of his back. His skin is warm under my touch, the muscles beneath shifting as he adjusts his position, his leg sliding between mine.
Wes props himself up slightly, resting his chin on my sternum so he can look up at me. His blue eyes are soft, framed by the faintest shadows from the room's dim light.
"Five days," he says quietly, his thumb brushing my hip again. "Too fucking long."
"It's nothing," I say softly, though my own voice wavers. "You'll be too focused on the Thanksgiving Week rivalry game and beating the Tigers. I'll be back before you know it."
He pouts adorably. "No. I'll be too busy missing you."
I bite my lip, trying not to smile. "Oh, poor baby."
He hums, clearly unconvinced. "What time's your flight?"
"Ridiculously early. I'll have to leave here by four, maybe earlier."
"I'll set an alarm," he says, his tone so casual it almost makes me miss the meaning behind it.
I blink, looking down at him. "Wes, no. You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." He lifts his head, his gaze meeting mine, and there's no room for argument in his expression.
"You have practice. You'll be exhausted."
"Cam, I'm driving you," he says firmly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at me. His free hand slides up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin. "Ain't no way I'm lettin' you take a damn Uber at that hour."
I huff, but the warmth in his eyes softens my protest. "I don't want you to be tired for practice."
"I'll be fine. Besides, for some reason," he says, his lips quirking into a teasing smile, "my stamina's been great lately." His hand slides back down to my waist, squeezing gently as his grin widens.
I laugh, swatting lightly at his chest. "I can't imagine why."
"Me neither," he says, leaning down to press a slow, lingering kiss to my lips.
When he pulls back, his expression has shifted, the teasing replaced with something quieter, heavier.
"I'm gonna miss you so fuckin' much, baby," he admits softly.
My chest tightens at the vulnerability in his voice, and I reach up to cup his face, my thumb brushing over his cheekbone.
"It's literally five days," I say, my voice softer now.
"Still too long," he murmurs.
I smile despite the lump in my throat, trying to lighten the moment. "My parents have already ordered jerseys for the whole family. They're all going to be wearing #10 for your Thanksgiving game."
That gets a laugh out of him, the sound low and warm as it rumbles through his chest.
I grin. "My mom keeps sending me updates. Apparently, they've planned a whole viewing party in the living room. You're going to have a small army of Arizonians screaming your name from the sofa."
Wes's face lights up as he laughs deeply, pressing his forehead into my shoulder.
"That's what I like to hear," he says with a grin, his voice full of the playful confidence I know so well. "You gonna be wearing one of those jerseys too?"
I blink up at him, caught off guard by the question. "Well, I guess I have to now, since I can't find my Rome Booker jersey."
"Ain't that a damn shame," Wes says with a playful grin, his tone teasing as he leans back on his heels.
His eyes gleam with that signature mischief, like he's already thinking about his next move.
He leans up, gives me a quick peck on my lips, then slides off me and the bed. I prop myself up on my elbows, watching as he strides toward his white shutter-door wardrobe. Every inch of him is pure golden skin and muscle.
Even his butt is amazing—just so solid and firm. Why do guys always seem to have the biggest asses? Isn't there enough of it in their personalities already?
The muscles flex in his shoulder as he grabs a jersey from the top shelf. It's old, worn in the best way, with the Colts TrueBlue color, silver accents, and the familiar number that's unmistakably his.
He holds it up, the bright white number shining against the deep blue fabric, and walks back toward me with a grin.
"Arms up, baby," he commands softly, his voice holding that playful confidence that always gets under my skin.
I obey, pushing myself up onto my knees, lifting my arms above my head as he slides the jersey over me. The cool fabric feels heavy as it settles, the silver trim glinting in the light. It smells like him and laundry detergent and dust from sitting in his wardrobe too long.
As the jersey falls into place, I glance up at him. "How do I look, quarterback?"
His eyes roam over me, taking in the sight of the TrueBlue jersey hanging perfectly on my frame.
His grin widens, and I see that familiar glint in his eyes.
He steps forward, hovering over me as his hand wraps around my neck, his thumb pushing at my chin and forcing my head back as I grin up at him.
"Like mine."
He swoops down, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips, and I smile against his mouth.
"I think you mean better than you," I mumble as he pulls back with an amused grin.
He takes a quick glance down at my body. The jersey is too big on me, naturally slouching down and slipping off one shoulder.
"That you do, baby, that you do." Wes stands in front of me. "It's a personal jersey—from an old strip. It's the one I was given the day I made QB1. The day I met you."
My heart squeezes in my chest.
"There ain't a single one like it in the world." His thumb caresses the edge of my jaw. "And I can't tell you the number of times I've fantasized about fucking you in my jersey."
The weight of his words hangs in the air, electrifying everything between us. I feel my breath catch in my throat, the tension building faster than I can process.
I raise an eyebrow, the teasing smirk never leaving my lips. "Well, I've never been one to stop people from achieving their dreams."
A wicked grin stretches across his lips.
Before I can say anything else, he's on me, the two of us tumbling back onto the bed.
And he becomes my whole world again.
And again.